Текст книги "The Gideon Affair"
Автор книги: Suzanne Halliday
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Copyright © 2015 by Suzanne Halliday
THE GIDEON AFFAIR
ISBN: 978-0-9961894-9-1
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This book is meant for mature readers who are 18+. It contains explicit language, and graphic sexual content.
Edited by Editing for Indies
Book Cover Design by Sara Eirew
Formatting By Champagne Formats
Cover Model: Pierre-Luc Lanthier
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
QUOTE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
OTHER BOOKS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“I remember a time when a cabbage could sell itself by being a cabbage. Nowadays it’s no good being a cabbage – unless you have an agent and pay him a commission.”
– Jean Giraudoux , The Madwoman of Chaillot
“Oh, no. Here he comes,” an anxious gasp next to her declared. “Move. I’m squished.”
“Shh,” she snapped in a harsh whisper. “And stop fidgeting. Just be quiet and we’ll be fine.”
Peering through a crack in the closet door where they hid, Paige’s breath caught when the door to the trailer whooshed open. It hit the siding with a tremendous bang, making her companion flinch.
Flashing a menacing glare and a silently delivered, “Shh,” she elbowed the young woman by her side and hoped their sounds didn’t give them away.
Voices carried from outside, but she wasn’t able to make out what was said. Didn’t matter, not really. All she cared about was that he came into the trailer by himself. Catching him alone was imperative. No way did she want an audience.
There was a thud, followed shortly by another. Slow, plodding footsteps and grunts accompanied his climb up the short steps. A moment of heavy silence fell. Paige wondered if they’d been discovered, but then a long, drawn-out sigh drifted through the air, and she relaxed.
So far, so good.
Careful not to make so much as a rustling sound, she tilted her head to the side and peeked through the crack again. Even turned as he was with most of his back to her, she’d recognize the man anywhere.
Looking an awful lot like a refugee from a homeless camp, he wore a long coat that at one time might have been a khaki color but was now filthy and splattered with dirt and grime.
Hunched over slightly as if the effort to stand straight was too much, he shuffled to the couch—the exertion bringing a strained groan from his throat.
Beside her, a stifled giggle at the man’s obvious distress got Paige’s eyes rolling. Talk about laughing at the wrong damn time!
A mighty croak, something that landed halfway between a grunt and cry, echoed as he tore off the dirty overcoat and flung it aside. Not that it made much difference. The clothes beneath it were equally disheveled and grimy.
Clutching the back of the sofa, he leaned for a brief second, and then, with a tremendous growl, he tore at his shirt until the sides hung open.
Paige shrank back in mute concern. Damn. She hadn’t considered that he might get undressed while they skulked in the closet. Now, what should she do? Decisions, decisions.
The sound of a brief struggle, typical for an elderly man taking his clothes off, got her heart thumping. And then there was a loud clunk and a half-muttered curse.
One more peek and then she’d decide what to do.
The man turned toward the closet. No longer hunched and bowed from the fake, weighted belly strapped to his middle, he straightened, and Paige almost laughed. It was like watching a Transformer click into shape.
A clean white t-shirt that in no way resembled the cruddy clothes he’d removed was tossed onto the growing pile of clothing strewn on the floor. And just like that, the elderly senior who’d labored up the stairs looking like a man close to his last breath vanished. Instead of a wrinkled, saggy chest covered with gray hair, a six-pack calendar torso mocked her voyeur’s gaze.
Phooey. Her skin prickling in all the wrong spots warned Paige that she was on thin ice. Despite the fun of lurk-stalking the quickly disrobing man, she knew it was time to act before hormones ruined their carefully thought out plan.
Nudging her sidekick, Paige held up three fingers, then two, then one. She motioned with her head that it was time to move and forcefully opened the closet door with a mighty kick. Rushing headlong into the tiny room, the clamor of their abrupt appearance would have startled the Buddha himself.
“Surprise!” the young woman fast on her heels squealed as they rushed toward the astonished, half-naked Adonis gaping at them. “Happy Birthday, Gideon,” she shouted excitedly.
Paige liked the plump girl with crazy hair and the organizational skills of the Queen’s private secretary. Carolyn was a worker bee with a green tea obsession that took having an excess of energy to an eleven. Sometimes, like now, her caffeine-fueled exuberance made Paige cringe. That and the girl’s ardent fangirling over every breath their boss took were exhausting.
“What the shit?” Gideon whooped huskily, a sly smile tugging the corners of his strikingly kissable lips.
Wait a minute! She knew that look. They hadn’t surprised him at all. He was just playing nice for Carolyn’s benefit.
“It was Paige’s idea,” her assistant trilled excitedly. Shoving an ice-cream cake in his face with one hand, she struggled to maintain her grip on a bundle of helium balloons that had shockingly survived the closet-bursting stunt.
Closet-bursting stunt. Ha! She’d have to add that to her extensive résumé of worthless piffle. Accomplishments: burst out of the closet. In this insane town, that alone was likely to get her an interview. It was a shame that none of the stupid bullshit that cluttered her work experience was of any value. A Hollywood work history had the tendency to run along the lines of absurd. Something that, after nearly six years as Gideon Shaw’s personal assistant, she knew all too well.
The warm smile he gave Carolyn was like a punch to Paige’s stomach, threading through her nervous system and heading straight to her privates. That damn knowing smirk of his always made her wet. And exactly what the hell did that say about her?
“Was it now? Hmm.” The droll tone he delivered with such ease earned a stern eye from her. “Leave it to Paige.” He laughed at his joke and then quipped, “Actually, sounds like a great pitch idea for a reality show.”
Punctuating the comment with a flirty wink at her adoring assistant was overkill.
What. A. Shithead.
“Don’t make me regret this, Shaw,” she muttered in a cool, overly polite voice. Straightening her shoulders, Paige pushed a pair of glasses up the bridge of her nose with her middle finger. Yes, that finger.
Carolyn’s fangirl-gasm, though annoying and getting old, could not have been timed more perfectly. The dull ache in her back and a sharp twinge every so often real low in her belly reminded Paige this was her time of the month to say less and listen more. Letting him work her into a snit until holy-hormonal hell broke loose and she chopped him into tiny manageable pieces before scattering them to the wind was only going to give him a laugh attack.
“Oh, you two!” Carolyn comically bawled. “Cut it out and let’s have cake!”
The pink-haired ball of energy hurried to the kitchenette, dropping the solid ice-cream cake onto the counter with a loud thud. “It’s chocolate,” the girl swooned. “Your favorite, Gideon!”
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
Rolling her eyes at the object of Carolyn’s drooling display, she snapped at their boss. “Cover up before she self-combusts.”
Snickering, he reached for the t-shirt thrown on the floor while Paige tried not to stare, something at which she failed miserably.
Standing nearly six-foot-three, Gideon Shaw was a card-carrying member of the panty-melting hot guy club. Broad shouldered and lean, he was muscled in all the right places but not in a crazy steroid way. The natural symmetry to his physique suggested a physically active man more than a pumped up bodybuilder.
She gave him a quick once-over before the t-shirt slid on, covering the unusual tribal ink at his waist that she knew extended down his hip. Having seen him countless times in nothing but briefs, she was aware of the marking. Even more so after one memorable occasion when he’d been wearing what the industry refers to as a cock sock for his privates—an absolute requirement in his contract. There would be no full frontal for Mister Gideon Shaw.
She’d been hard pressed not to fall to her knees and sing out “Hallelujah” when she got a firsthand look at the magnificent body he'd been blessed with. The only thing she’d never seen happened to quite literally be just the ol’ cock and balls.
But the rest of that remarkably sexy ink? It flowed across his hip, edging close to the seam where thigh met torso before ending perilously close to what the annoying cock sock covered. She’d never know if it went further.
With that randy memory thoroughly rattling her composure, Paige tidied a tendril of hair that had escaped her hairband and put some real effort into appearing unmoved by his display.
“Who’s got a lighter?” Carolyn chirped excitedly.
The helium-filled bouquet with the obnoxiously large Over-the-Hill at 30 center balloon mocked the occasion. It was his thirty-second, but in Hollywood, the longer you believably stayed in the younger demographic, the harder your agent’s dick was. Paige wouldn’t know, but Gideon certainly did. It was his quote, after all.
Snatching a promo lighter from a pile of swag the studio had sent over, he tossed it across the room barking, “Catch,” with a teasing chuckle.
Carolyn snagged it with one hand and absolutely no effort. According to her résumé, she’d been co-captain of the girls’ softball team in high school. It showed.
Applauding, their birthday boss heartily declared, “You‘re trying out for the studio team, Caro. And no whining! We need to beat those special effects guys this year.”
With a grumpy smirk in Paige’s knowing direction, he drawled, “Sick of having to salute every time one of ‘em walks by.”
She snorted loudly, unable to stop the rude noise because, after all, that part of winning the championship was amusing. The team that came out on top after a winner-takes-all three-game series walked away with sports glory, a hideous trophy, and the opportunity to bestow a penalty on the losing team. Nothing too outrageous, usually just a small dig that scoffed at the second-place status. The salute was minor compared to the stunts from previous winners.
Waving a red flag opportunity at her hopelessly starstruck assistant to hang out with their boss after work hours was a recipe for disaster, but Paige bit her tongue rather than pop the girl’s happiness balloon.
“Dibs on center field!” Carolyn hooted. “Suh-wing, right up the middle, straight for my magic glove.”
Paige sighed, her brows snapping together. Shoot. Was the girl ridiculously infatuated? Hmm. She had to stay on top of this situation—make sure it didn’t get ugly. Carolyn was a key member of Team Shaw. Paige could only realistically do so many things in a day. Without a competent assistant she could trust, her work life would be hell.
There was only one small complication with her reasoning, and that was Gideon himself. Paige’s primary function as his personal assistant was to support the phenomenon that was Gideon Shaw.
After a meteoric rise through a brutal industry and having starred in several blockbusters, he was the latest mega-action star and designated sexiest man. His two most recent roles, both highly successful romantic comedies, effectively silenced a chorus of naysayers and critics. Overnight, he became a romantic lead with huge dollar signs above his head.
Bottom line—they worked for a man who all the guys wanted to be, and every woman wanted to sleep with. Perfect.
It was natural that Caroline would have stars in her eyes. She was twenty-one years old and new to Tinseltown. Paige remembered what that was like. She’d been just twenty-two when she’d first arrived, but not as a starstruck kid.
In her case, she’d been at the jumping off point in a promise she’d made to herself. She’d decided that after graduation, she’d take a year to try something different. After acing four rigorous years at Cornell University, she walked away with a management degree that positioned her incredibly well for almost any industry. She had chosen courses to hone her skills in leadership, human resources, business law, entrepreneurship, and even intercultural-global business communication. She could mobilize resources like a queen bitch. In short, thanks to an incredibly expensive education, she, Paige Marie Turner from a little redneck mud fest in the boondocks, was set to tackle anything thrown her way.
With her parents’ blessing, she emptied her dorm room, packed everything she could into her aging Nissan, and, within thirty-six hours of taking off her cap and gown, was MapQuesting her way west. All the way west. To Los Angeles, California. The City of Angels—with no idea what was next for her.
She enjoyed thinking back on those early days. Back when all that she took for granted today was new and exciting. A planner by nature, Paige disliked flying by the seat of her pants, so she gave herself ten days to freak out and act like a typical tourist. Get it out of her system so she could concentrate on the work before her—finding a job and a new life.
Managing on a shoestring budget in the outrageously expensive town presented endless challenges but luck had been on her side. She'd been in the right place at the right time to land a studio apartment in the Valley that she rented on the cheap.
God, she had loved that apartment. Situated on the top floor of a two-story complex shaped like a crooked U, her front window had looked out over the pool in the courtyard and the bougainvillea and palm tree-lined driveway. To Paige, it had been a slice of heaven.
And that was where she’d first encountered Gideon; only he wasn’t called that at the time.
There was nothing more enjoyable than yanking Paige’s chain.
Hmm. Well, maybe that wasn’t entirely accurate. He also enjoyed animal videos. The funnier, the better. His all-time favorites were of a smiling kitten sliding on its back across a polished floor. And another of a huge Great Dane, who must’ve thought he was the size of a handbag, trying to squeeze into a child’s car seat. That shit never failed to make him laugh.
But when it came to fucking with Paige? Practically his favorite pastime.
He knew she was somewhere in his trailer the second the door flew open and the unmistakable scent of soap and mint filled the air. Those two things had made an impression on him the very first time he’d ever spoken to her.
The years since had been a whirlwind, but she’d stuck by his side. Over time, as their relationship had deepened, she became his closest friend and ally. In a town where your entourage mattered, his consisted of an enigmatic country girl with a fancy degree who made others green with envy. Never without an endless supply of Wintergreen Breathsavers stuffed in every pocket, bag, and center console, she was his most trusted assistant … and the only person besides his family who knew the real man behind the movie star image.
Oh, yeah. And Caro was part of the entourage, only she didn’t actually know him. Her part in his crazy world was as someone with absolute integrity who willingly took a blood oath to serve him faithfully all the days of her life and essentially be his number one groupie. He wasn’t so full of himself that he didn’t recognize the charity of her adoration, always making sure to consider her feelings and talents.
He might be the one in the spotlight, but he knew that Paige was the real star. Her drive and the fact that she had more in the way of balls than half the people he knew had done more to shape his movie career than his acting had.
After six years of working side by side, Paige and he were a formidable duo. During that time, he went from being a pool guy to earning insane sums of money for taking off his shirt, playing bang-bang shoot ‘em up, and nailing his sexy leading lady co-star. She easily finished his sentences, diplomatically dismissed a bedmate five minutes past her welcome, and micromanaged his agent without the crazed dynamo realizing she was playing him. He also asked her to weigh in on every project passed his way.
Paige Turner was unique, and no, he didn’t hesitate to chuckle at her ironic sounding name. Thank god she was eye-rollingly used to it.
She was also indispensable, and that should have been the end of it if for no reason other than that the woman worked for him. The thing was, though, that he was more than just a little in lust with her. Not that she knew it, of course.
Maybe that was why it was such fun messing with her at every opportunity. If he couldn’t have her naked and dripping with arousal—pinned to a bed by his dick while she cried out his name—he’d find his release in other ways. Jacking her up for the hell of it then jumping feet first into her reaction and holding on for a wild ride was always a good time.
He was a visual kind of a guy. Instead of reading directions, he preferred to see a picture of the end product. Picking simple paint colors required a half a dozen samples for him to consider, one by one. When choosing a part, it wasn’t unusual for him to meditate visually. It was just his way; so, basically, he eyeballed his assistant morning, noon, and night because she was a vision worth getting lost in.
As Caro driveled on about ice cream and who the fuck knows what else, he slapped an expression of faux interest on his face when really, he was watching Paige’s every move.
She’d moved to the far side of the long trailer standing with her back to them as she flipped through the impressive satellite entertainment system in his luxe Star Waggon. He had to admit that the sleek, modern on-set home that Paige insisted be part of his contract was remarkable. It was a far cry from the Triple Banger that he and two other actors had squeezed into when he’d started out. Yeesh, he remembered that those things were little more than holding pens. As he took the plate Carolyn pressed into his hands, he settled against the edge of the counter and absently picked at the frozen treat while Paige’s pink-haired assistant talked nonstop. He was okay with the steady stream of twaddle; it gave him the chance to study the backside of the woman across the room who was deliberately ignoring him.
Having no useable knowledge of women’s fashion besides the ability to differentiate between pants and a dress, he studied Paige’s outfit. It was fine, he guessed. I mean, what the fuck did he know? One of the best goddamn perks of being a movie star was the endless parade of wardrobe, stylist, and makeup pros who maintained the Gideon Shaw mystique. And a good thing, too.
Four years in military issue uniforms had wiped out whatever slim sense of fashion or presentable grooming he’d acquired before that time, something his mother would happily confirm. That shitty war burned all that nonsense right the hell out of him. Something about motherfuckers trying to blow your ass up morning, noon, and night didn’t leave room for worrying about what shirt went with which pants.
This did not however mean that he couldn’t appreciate a well-dressed woman.
In a style best described as an original from the Don’t-Give-a-Fuck-Because-I’ll-Goddamn-Wear-What-I-Want collection, her top was a plain blue and white striped button shirt that was boring as fuck. It was an effect he knew was intentional on her part. Rolling the sleeves to just below her elbows gave the outfit a casual air. So did the multiple bracelets and bangles on each arm.
Even though her back was to him, he knew that around her neck, just barely visible in the open neckline of the shirt, was a silver ball necklace. A birthday gift from him; some Tiffany thing he knew she’d like almost as much as he liked giving her that distinctive blue box. A first for him.
Inhaling sharply, the sinfully delicious ice-cream treat slid onto his tongue with a burst of cold chocolate. His gaze landed on Paige’s beautiful hair. Tamed by a simple headband, the equally decadent blend of chocolate browns and sunlit golds that curled the ends fell in a haphazard tumble across her shoulders to the middle of her back. Long hair was something he liked very much, and as he quietly contemplated hers, his fingers itched to reach out and touch. Explore its texture. See if the lovely curls were as soft as he imagined.
The high-waist blue skirt, which thankfully stopped a couple of inches above her knees, was one of those slightly gathered things that’d flare out if he were to suddenly twirl her around. Several inches of waistband accentuated her lean, lithe shape and from behind? Holy god. Not for the first or last time, he fantasized about coming up on her just like she was now; bending her over the back of the sofa so he could push her skirt up to reveal her bottom.
He’d make her part her long legs in those sexy red suede heels and then, well … and then he’d do something that would destroy the only real relationship he’d allowed in more years than he wanted to remember.
Shit. Had he muttered that last bit out loud?
Paige slowly turned and looked his way, a deadpan expression on her otherwise sweet face. Then she glanced at Carolyn, and for a second, the coolness he associated with her slipped a little.
Spooning a gooey mound of sugary crap into his mouth, he quietly sighed. That look on her face was something he’d come to recognize—and it fucking bothered him. This was where his two lives crashed headlong into each other.
Edward Banning was no more Gideon Shaw than the gaffers walking by outside. He’d thought that by creating a persona from scratch, he’d protect his personal life from celebrity scrutiny. And for the most part, that had been true.
Public opinion labeled Gideon as a man-whore, which was almost unavoidable considering the environment. A steady parade of actresses, models, and pseudo-celebrity types walked the red carpet at his side. Though the reality was these things were part of the job and nothing more than carefully crafted photo ops, the media still insisted on squeezing every inch of copy they could. Usually by suggesting his involvement with every living, breathing female who he spoke with.
Had he bedded his fair share of available pussy? Eh, okay. When fame and fortune had come at him fast, he’d definitely indulged. After a while, though, that shit got old. At least, it did for him. He liked getting laid just as much as the next guy but recreational sex, once mastered, lost its appeal.
Unfortunately, Paige had witnessed those rookie excesses and, to his great shame, had even facilitated one or two walks of shame away from his bed.
The way she was looking at Caro told him she was edgy where her flirty assistant was concerned. He wanted to tell her she had nothing to worry about. That she was the only woman he had any interest in flirting with—but he said nothing and just kept mindlessly shoveling birthday cake into his mouth.
He wondered how she’d react if he admitted to letting her think she’d manipulated him into hiring Caro or how he’d have hired a grandfather if that would have helped. He wasn’t stupid and knew right away that Paige chose Carolyn because she hoped the girl wasn’t his type.
He smiled at Caro, who was now rambling on about current events while recalling his and Paige’s first foray into adding someone to Team Shaw. Hiring a kid fresh out of UCLA, who had mad social media skills and a knack for remembering names, seemed like such a good idea at the time. Plus, it was obvious Paige had leaned toward ‘Brad’ because he wasn’t a female. The last thing she needed was some up-and-coming starlet masquerading as a worker bee who was only interested in fucking a celebrity or getting a SAG card. Brad was a safe bet. Or so it seemed.
Three months later, he’d bleached his ass and was working the bottom for an Indie director who was burning up the benjamins on his first big-budget studio film. Brad, the shithead, simply stopped coming to work.
Quietly snickering, he remembered sniping that Brad’s asshole now hung from the smarmy director’s rearview mirror like a fucking trophy.
Their first employee had been a complete disaster. Lesson learned.
When Carolyn had turned up with her motor mouth and wild hair, which at the time was a black and purple, neither he nor Paige was instantly swayed. But Caro was relentless and had a confidence that worked in her favor.
Had an ulterior motive been at work in his decision to employ Caro? Shit. He wished he were that smart. The hire had been a desperate move to save Paige’s sanity and, probably, her health. After the freaky dynamo had taken on the day-to-day bullshit, he realized Paige would have more time to concentrate solely on him.
“Hashtag winning,” he mumbled quietly. At the same time, he remembered what was behind Paige’s worried frown. She was working up a snit about how friendly her assistant and he were with each other. Needing Carolyn’s help wasn’t the same as sharing him. For all of Paige Turner’s professional aloofness and subtly mocking undertone where Team Shaw was concerned, she was showing signs of being way more invested in Edward Banning than Gideon Shaw.
And that wasn’t a bad thing as far as he was concerned.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Paige mentally grumbled. Somebody—stuff a damn sock in her mouth and make the girl shut the hell up.
Ehrmygawd, enough!
She shuffled away from her yammering assistant and the lure of the no-no dessert because falling face-first into an ice-cream cake like a hungry bear ravaging a dumpster full of food was only going to make matters worse.
Damn cramps. Stupid hormones. Ugh.
Heading for the big screen TV, she hoped for a good documentary to watch … or better yet, one of those How It’s Made or House Hunters International episodes. Both shows were great go-tos.
Ignoring everything else, she clicked the buttons on the fancy remote and shook her head.
Why was it that even with a thousand friggin’ channels, there was still nothing on?
Sighing, Paige was aggressively flipping through the entertainment offerings when she felt his intense perusal– directed solely at her. A mini-explosion fried each one of her nerve endings.
Oh, great. He was using that damn x-ray vision of his that never failed to see all sorts of things she’d prefer he didn’t. Like the way her heartbeat picked up at the sound of his deeply masculine voice, or the feeling of her stomach wobbling when he was near enough to smell.
Shocking heat poured into her center until—too great to be contained—a fireball shot into her hoo-ha with tremendous force.
And just like that, Paige got her hormones under control. Rolling her eyes, she wrinkled her nose, too.
Hoo-ha? Friggin’ really? When did I become a hoo-ha sort of a girl?
Saying ‘privates’ was usually as tame as she got. Her screenwriter friend, Patsy Steele, liked to use the expression ‘nether regions.’
Vagina was too PC. Her mother was comfortable flinging around vaginal references, but that word always made Paige feel like she was in health class.
Snatch was one of those meh words. So were kitty and va-jay-jay.
A good sign you were trying too hard? Sugar basin, love tunnel, pink taco.
And then there was the big one. The capital C word. The universally cringe-worthy epithet that always garnered everyone’s attention.
Cunt. That one occupied an exclusive category all on its own.
Guaranteed to get a reaction, women tended to use the word in an entirely different context than men did. An angrily muttered, "She’s an evil cunt," set off girl-fight alarms—but a sexy grunt and a possessive, "That cunt is mine …" Well, two entirely different things. One was likely to end with a bitch slap while the other held the promise of something hotter.
But Paige was an old-fashioned girl. No need to beat around the metaphorical bush.
Ha-ha!
Pussy was fine—after all, it was somewhat hard to find the word offensive because it was used so much these days.
Hoo-ha must have been a brain zap that didn’t lessen the undeniable fact that the heat singeing her panties was a direct result of his nearness communicating directly with her pussy.
Yep. That was what I said. Paige snickered.
Being around the man when he was in one of his watchful moods tested, tempted, and tantalized. Precisely why she’d become adept at shutting off her response to the solid wall of muscle with the know-it-all smirk. She didn't need the chronic horniness that defined her personal life to get the better of her.
Dropping the useless remote control, she heard a mumbled, “Shit,” and turned with a quizzical look, startled to find him staring at her with an expression she’d never seen before. What was that all about?
Carolyn was rambling on, no doubt having something to do with how awesomely fabulous and awesomely awesome Gideon was. She was a broken record on his so-called awesomeness. The word was starting to make Paige grind her teeth whenever she heard it.
Dammit. She was reacting like a bitch, and while she thought of herself as being many things, classic bitch wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t her style. Besides, the woman-as-bitch stereotype was old and stale despite the glut of reality shows celebrating the look-at-me art of female bitchiness. She liked to think she was far more clever than that. Paige’s resting bitch face resembled bored tolerance squared, though most on the receiving end wouldn’t even know what that expression meant.
